


Winds From The East

by ppyajunebug



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3739504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppyajunebug/pseuds/ppyajunebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The begin and end in the park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winds From The East

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, blame the commenters at The Toast for this. There is no other explanation.

The first time he saw her was in the park.

The digital age had changed much of how the British government ran its intelligence service. However, there were times in which a discrete meeting in the park by the lake was the most efficient way of doing business.

It was after one such meeting that Mycroft saw her. She was sitting on a bench, watching a pack of children who were running about wildly. He spent a few moments trying to deduce the rules of the game he assumed they were playing (a variation on tag that appeared to involve an inordinate amount of screaming when contact was made) before their eyes locked.

She couldn’t have been more than 35, her dark hair pulled back into a tidy bun, her clothes simple but well tailored. Her face was pretty but unremarkable, nothing that should have turned his head. And yet…

Her eyes were unfathomably old.

Dark, so dark and _old_. Not wise or kind or sparking but eyes that had seen uncountable years and decades.

She smiled, incongruously young next to those eyes. He startled and she smiled wider. He had been years since anyone had been able to surprise him, and he found himself smiling back.

~

The last time he saw her was in the park.

His bones creaked now, his joints ached and his movements were slow despite the cane he now took everywhere with him. His mind was as sharp as ever, but the King had expressed some displeasure at the speed at which he concluded the latest “negotiations” with Russia. He tried to explain that it was simply a mistranslation and there really was never any need for the pistols, but it was clear that he would need to take a step back from his duties, if not retire outright.

He was morosely contemplating a future of being a _consultant_ (oh, how Sherlock would love that) when he felt someone sit down beside him on the bench. And he knew.

She hadn’t aged a day. Of course she hadn’t, she never would. Her hair had not a streak of grey, her clothes fashionably simple as always.

Her eyes, still old and dark and terrifying.

“Mary” he said gruffly. Once, as they were drifting off to sleep, he asked if Mary was her real name. She laughed, a deep and rich sound that he heard far too rarely, and simply kissed him by way of an answer.

“Mycroft. It has been…some time.” was her reply.

Some time indeed. He had only known she left the last time because her umbrella was no longer in the stand by the door. No word of farewell or note left crumpled in the grate. She was simply gone.

“Indeed,” he said. “I fear I may no longer live up to your high standards.” She smiled at him. He smiled back.

“It is time Mycroft,” she told him softly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“Oh?” he said. “I had always assumed this would be more…interesting.”

“I think your life has been interesting enough, don’t you?”

She stood and proffered her hand. He slowly straightened, feeling all his 89 years, and took it. Raising her umbrella (oh, how he had missed that battered old thing!) she leaned into his ear.

“Time to go, my dear.”

The park was empty now, silent but for the sound of a cane hitting the ground.


End file.
